An Exotic Matter - chapter 1 (Zurich to Zagreb)

An Exotic Matter 1

If you want to find out what's going on with Devra Bogdanovich, read this. It's
the first chapter of my novel, An Exotic Matter. This novel, and I have proof, was set
to be published in 2009, but my publisher went under. It's been tied up in their
bankruptcy ever since. It's very upsetting. I've got half a mind to put it out
digitally. The contract doesn't say anything about that.

The other thing that upsets me is that I'm the first writer I know of who's been
plagiarized by reality. That is, if indeed these stories about Devra Bogdanovich are
real. I can't tell. I think maybe somebody found ‘An Exotic Matter’ and is stealing it
from me.

I'm sending the first chapter to you for free. If your investigators want to see the
rest of it, they've got to pay. There's a lot of stuff in there that might be of value to
your fans.

I'm enclosing the galley proof from my publisher. There's more where this came
from, but not for free. And if somebody’s ripping me off, I'm going to find out who
it is.

N Sincerely,

Felicia Hajra-Lee

Zurich to Zagreb

Something was very wrong. But Devra wasn’t sure what
that something might be, because the escape from CERN
had gone perfectly.

The calamity happened just the way they were afraid it
would. Or maybe the way Devra had secretly hoped it would.
The sirens. Security personnel running everywhere. Distraction
and chaos.

Then, the escape. A motorcycle race through the city. The
crossing gate. Getting on board. Separating from Jarvis.

Now, Dr. Devra Bogdanovich was alone. Almost.

She stared out the window of the passenger car. The
foreground was a blur of lights, signs, poles, passing cars, and
towns. The mountains were somewhere in the darkness, stately
and fixed. Devra was looking for reassurance in a chaotic and
increasingly dangerous universe, but instead, her eyes caught

glimpses of the barely visible European countryside.

Everything had gone perfectly, Devra thought. Yet
something was wrong. Maybe it was the perfection. The Swiss

precision of it all. A complete lack of friction. As a scientist,
Devra knew that perfection was an intellectual concept: it
didn’t exist in the real world. But she'd just witnessed it. Lived
it. And it wasn’t sitting well with her.

She closed her eyes. Thoughts and memories crashed
together in a swirl of motion that mirrored the rhythmic
clanking of the tracks and streaking lights racing past. Each
second Devra was more distant from the flawless escape, and
closer to an uncertain future.

Jarvis was at least fifty kilometers away by now. Devra had
explained that this was part of the plan, but the look on Jarvis’
face told her that he didn’t know. He expected them to stay
together. She remembered him as she stepped away. Jarvis,
hiding his anger and sense of betrayal and failing miserably at
both. She would make it up to him. Besides, they would look
for the two of them traveling together. Alone was better.

Well, Devra wasn’t traveling totally alone. She had a
guardian angel. A non-corporeal spirit that haunted every
possible piece of equipment and technology that she had and
would come in contact with as she ran. It was ADA. A
Detection Algorithm. An artificial intelligence of vast, limitless
capabilities and unknowable intentions.

ADA had choreographed their escape from Niantic. But
what had she choreographed that Devra hadn’t seen? Were
there operatives on the train with her? The businessman who
either wasn't enjoying his novel or was just pretending to read
it. What about that couple? Young. Hip. The guy had been
eyeing her. She’d flattered herself into thinking it was because

she was attractive. And what about the girl? Devra had caught
her looking.

She knew she could literally drive herself crazy projecting
the possibilities. If ADA had some sinister plan… IfADA was
even capable of hatching sinister plans… She wasn’t going to
figure it out now. She closed her eyes, uneasily. It didn’t stop
the data flood. This didn’t surprise Devra. She’d been

overloaded with XM just like the rest of them only a few hours
ago.

Devra was the scientific lead on the Niantic Project, which
comprised a team of investigators to detennine the “Threats
and Opportunities Inherent in Exotic Matter”, “XM” for short,
for the National Intelligence Agency, a.k.a. the “NIA”. It was an
open ended think tank populated by both scientists and
sensitives“ - people who were receptive to the influence of
exotic matter. Jarvis, the famous sculptor. Enoch, the musician.
A symbologist - Carrie. Misty, the magician/psychic who
claimed to have no gifts beyond being a sensitive. A theological
physicist/conman named Stein. And a select group of
physicists of various different types. Scientists like herself. It
was an odd group. Reminded her of the old Donovan song
Atlantis”

Knowing her fate, Atlantis sent out ships to all
corners of the Earth.
On board were the Twelve:
The poet, the physician, the farmer, the scientist,
The magician and the other so-called Gods of our
legends.
Though Gods they were
And as the elders of our time choose to remain blind

An Exotic Matter 2

The word “Niantians” rolled across her brain, and she
smiled, keeping her eyes closed. She had to calm things.

Exotic Matter, long theorized, had recently been officially
discovered and quantified at the CERN Laboratories as part of
the Higgs-Boson research. Without a flashy name like “The
God Particle,” XM was ignored in the media. But not by those
in the know…

XM was a bit of cosmic substrate whose very existence

was, until recently, barely accepted. Its only observable
characteristic was a very faint gravitational tug felt in the
aggregate across vast stretches of the universe, gently slowing
the ceaseless expansion of everything from the core out to the
edge of nothingness. But in a lab, their lab, recently, they had
isolated and observed the subatomic particles that comprise
XM. Actually, ADA observed them. The humans merely
double checked the results, but the scientific glory would be
theirs.

Troubling though, was the strange pattern of irregular
pulsations detected at the very margin of XM's fragile
existence. A thrum of vibrations at the particle level. Entirely
normal in the general case but this thrum was different. It was
irregular in the most intriguing way. There were patterns. A
logic. ADA's cold summary delivered in an almost human
voice still hung in the air. “This dataset contains ordered
information. Preliminary analysis suggest encoded
communication.” It was most certainly an error, some
contamination of the delicate measurements used to analyze
the particles. And yet, so far, inexplicable.

This was Devra’s field. She had been curious since the
beginning why a physicist like herself who focused on the
collapse of quasars and a lifelong passion for SETI had been

invited to a particle physics research group. It was Devra’s
algorithms that ADA had run against the dataset. That had
never been intended. Why would one search for signs of
extra-terrestrial life at the subatomic realm? And yet, what
surfaced was beyond anything she had dared to dream in
decades. Dialtone. A signal of ordered information with no
organic explanation. If there was dialtone, somewhere there
was a sender, or at least that was what she had argued in her
doctoral thesis.

Without explanation, this result had been anticipated by the
Niantic Project coordinators. She had been invited, seemingly
in anticipation of such an impossible discovery. That made no

sense. She batted the thought away for the hundredth time.
“Thoughts come, but you do not hold onto to them,” she
repeated to herself as a mantra, as she attempted to relax.

An image of Zeke Calvin broke in, shattering her nerves
again. Calvin, the single neurobiologist on the team, had been
calm when the results came back. Too calm. He should have
laughed out loud. Instead, without missing a beat, he had
launched a series of experiments off-site with colleagues in a
commercial drug company in Basel. They first bathed rodent,
then primate brains, with the dialtone signal encoded into
electrical pulses. Calvin's work had not yet been published, but
he was clearly excited. He talked about behavioral and
morphological changes.

And then there were the intel geeks. The worst kind of
geeks, in love not only with technology, but secret technology,
and most definitely unbearable companions at meal-times.
They had been flying a new sensor. They didn't say, and she
didn't understand if it was on some type of aircraft or on a
satellite. It had a specific mission, to look for XM

concentrations on earth. Again, this made no sense. When
Devra joined the project, there was no published knowledge of
XM concentrations of any observable levels anywhere on the
planet. Such a sensor would have taken months to build and
launch. Possibly years. And yet it existed. Devra had seen the
mapping of XM projected onto a globe. There were tens of
thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of sites.

If the XM existed, presumably the dialtone signal was
pervasive as well. Calvin wanted to continue his studies, but
this time on humans in the field. Lynton-Wolfe was working
on a smart-phone app that used the map to guide humans to
XM concentrations. An embedded XM modulation core would
allow resonating XM constructs to amplify these naturally
occurring XM anomalies. Their plan was to expose civilians, en
masse, to vast quantities of XM. They spoke of XM constructs
resonators” and “fields” - in ways Devra didn't understand.

And now she had seen what a mega-dose of modulated
XM could do. There was some kind of effect on the human
nervous system. She herself had been largely immune, but the
others… No, she couldn't yet process what she had seen.

Some believed that the XM anomalies were portals.
Beacons. Giant trans-dimensional signposts, subconsciously
detected by all humans, but acutely evident to sensitives… a
beautiful invisible artifact of a greater universe. Like the Alps
somewhere out there in the dark, Devra thought to herself.
Inspiring, but carrying no particular meaning.

Others believed that they were spewing ordered data which
was translated by the human brain as ideas, impulses, thoughts
and emotions. Still others believed that they were executable
code: brain viruses that actually inhabited and influenced the
mind.

Devra didn’t know what she believed, but she saw the

potential risk. And to her, the least mathematical on the science
team, the arithmetic was easy: if small amounts of it could
cause men to build Chartres Cathedral, imagine what large
amounts of it could do. Be careful. Move slowly. Yes. This
could be the gateway to an amazing future. Or it could be a
portal to hell. No reason to hurry. But that’s not what
happened.

When Devra discovered that Lynton-Wolfe’s team was
deploying resonators out in the world, with no sense of the
consequences, she knew she had to leave… escape. But how
and to where?

That’ s where ADA came in. And, ironically, Jarvis.

ADA sympathized with Devra’ s need to get out. To contact
associates. To counter Niantic, or at least have a plan to
minimize the damage if the worst happened. Devra’ s success
would count on the advantage of surprise because she was not
trained in what she was about to attempt. The plan meant
leaving during the Lynton-Wolfe test. It would give her “panic”
as a plausible motive if she were caught. What she lacked were
the mechanical skills to escape.

But that’ s where Jarvis came in. He wanted out for his own
reasons. Certainly not as noble or important as her own, but no
less passionate in desire. Jarvis had seen enough of Niantic. Of
XM. Of the influence of what they had come to call the
Shapers. Jarvis was a man determined to create his own
destiny, as far away from Niantic as possible.

ADA had convinced them both that this would work. That
running together gave them the maximum chance of success.

Unless maybe running was a mistake.

A cold chill ran down Devra’s spine. Doubt. She tried to

An Exotic Matter 3

focus on the moon out the window, but even it was distorted to
her eyes. Perhaps this was some residual effect of the XM.
How much had she been exposed to, she wondered. More than
was safe, she assumed. But not enough to be lethal. But that

was the question. Was XM ever lethal?

She advised caution, but Lynton-Wolfe and even Calvin
had ignored her. Or, at best, humored her. Now she would
fight them. She would build a team to counter Niantic’s
research.

The thought of this filled Devra with equal doses of
excitement and dread. The NIA would be coming after her.
Even they knew that something was very wrong. Her.

No, the moon, Devra thought. That is what’s wrong. She
looked again. It shimmered in the night so low in the sky that it
seem ed below the windows of train. Devra realized that wasn’t
possible. She was seeing a reflection. The train was moving by
a large body of water. A lake. She could make out boats
moored at docks alongside it. Then a large building. A sign that
read “See Hotel Kais…”

A loud bump jolted Devra’s attention back into the train
car. Ahead, the young couple she’d noticed earlier struggled
with a large duffel bag. Hikers, or college students seeing
Europe while they could, she imagined. No threat. Maybe even
Americans like herself But she wasn’t sure. That gift was
reserved for Europeans. Spotting Americans came second
nature to them.

Having traveled the world, Devra was struck by how often
people would recognize her as not only being from the States,
but even from California, before she even opened her mouth.
Something about the way she looked. Her attitude… Her
bearing as her father used to tell her. The way she moved and

page 11

carried herself. A swagger, she was once told. The tilt of her
head. The movement of her eyes. Her clothing. Something
besides her accent had given her away many times in the past.

She kind of liked it. But then again, she had never been
hunted before. She would have to learn to vanish in a crowd.
Not easy for a tall, blonde, attractive woman. But she'd have to

learn. She’d heard a story one about how Marilyn Monroe
could walk down the streets of Manhattan unnoticed and then
turn it on with a giggle and a wave of her hair. Devra had to
learn the opposite. Tonight, she was going to be just another
Swiss businesswoman - or maybe a housewife - on her way to
a business meeting or a relative's funeral.

Devra set out to create a plausible fiction of who she was
now. Choose a story. Fill in the details. She grabbed her
smartphone to capture the ideas and edit them into a narrative.
Better than trying to make out shapes in the night. And
certainly a mind that had imagined into the farthest reaches of
human knowledge, and had explored theoretical abstracts of
time and space itself, could create a plausible reason for being
on a train in the middle of the night. Just in case someone
should ask. Which Devra was sure they wouldn’t. No one
would ask her anything.

“Business or pleasure?” a voice asked.

Sorry?” Devra replied.

“Pleasure for me, obviously. And her. That’s Mika. I’m
David.”

He smiled from the aisle next to her seat. Mika waved from
further down as she nudged the rest of the duffel bag onto the
seat. Devra made a mental note to improve her situational
awareness. David had moved right next to her, and she hadn’t
noticed.

An Exotic Matter 4

“Plenty of room on this train. I heard they were crowded
this time of year.”

“Not this time of night.”

“Oh, yeah. That makes sense, I guess. Mika and I are

hoping that this club is still open when we get to our stop. It’s
called “The Night Gallery”, I think. You can join us if you’d
like.” David had that cocky-cool demeanor she had run into so
many times with her students. Guys who think a smile is all it
takes.

“Business,” Devra said as she looked again at Mika. Pretty
girl. And that’s when she noticed the duffel bag. Something
wasn’t right. It was filled with angular objects… she could make
out comers and flat surfaces pressing against the cotton fabric.

“What?”

“You asked, earlier. Remember?”

“Right. An ice-breaker. Don’t care really…”

Devra looked at David again, and it was as if she was seeing
him all over again with new eyes. She began to think that the
XM that must still be coursing through her had enhanced her
senses - she was studying its effects on the human mind -
perhaps it was able to do more than excite the creative impulse,
but the survival one as well. Because now, David was a threat
in Devra’ s eyes. Not a physical threat, but she was sure
something wasn’t right. Time to end this.

“Just an opener to say ‘hi’ to a fellow traveler, then?” Devra
smiled.

Gallery. The name had sinister overtones. Rod Serling. Creepy
stories, like “The Twilight Zone”. Like right now, she thought.
Of all the names a club could have, she hears “The Night
Gallery”.

David smiled, shrugging. “Change your mind, you know
where to find me, uh… What was your name again?”

“Connie,” said Devra, with as much conviction as she
could muster.

“You don’t look like a Connie,” David whispered as he
moved closer to her.

“But I do look like an American,” Devra said looking back
up at him, her eyes suddenly cold. “You know I might be old
enough to be your mother. Do you invite your mother to

clubs?”

David smiled as he turned away. “I like my mother.”

David stepped back to Mika and gave her a long kiss,
obviously for Devra’s benefit. She tried to make out words that
they exchanged. Mika gave a look back Devra’s way as she
dropped down into the seat.

Devra turned her attention back out the window. The train
was slowing down. They’d reach the station soon. She’d made
it this far, but if a frat boy from halfway around the world was
able to see through her, what chance did she stand against the
NIA?

She got up from her seat and moved quickly back to the
next car. A little more crowded than the first. She moved to an
empty seat and plopped down into it.

Half the car’s passengers got up as the train stopped. From
her new vantage point, Devra could see David and Mika head
out across the platform. They looked happy. Carefree. Children
in adult bodies, blithely unaware of what was coming for them

Hidden Info

In the thumbnail of the document Original file
There are several dots and lines. After a bit of arranging (it involves some reversing of some lines) you can obtain this image

Just reverse it and replace calvin with ezekiel and you get another passcode - 4zc7ezekielw5u5q

Hidden Info2

the text refers a club called the Night Gallery - That is a new passcode - Nachtgalerie
A club in Germany (Munich) http://www.nachtgalerie.de

An Exotic Matter 5

in life. What comes for everybody, eventually. The problems of
adulthood. Devra envied them. Could she have that back?
Ever. Why does it really end? She repressed the urge to jump
off the train and see if the Night Gallery lived up to the billing
David was trying to sell.

Oh that’s right. I have a world to save,” she thought to
herself. She was almost giddy. It was the non-violent version of
what Dashiell Hammet referred to as ‘blood simple.’ That
moment where thrill and fear disabled brain function. Where
life is so terrifying that it becomes comedy.

With the subtlest of jerks, the train was once again in
motion. The gentle rocking was comforting. She knew the
crash was coming. You can’t have that much adrenaline
without a crash. It was pure physiology or body chemistry to
be precise. The barely audible sound of the train pulling itself
through the European countryside at night reminded her that
there was an app of ambient audio which was the very sound

she was fighting to ignore. The sound of rest. Sleep.

Devra smiled and closed her eyes. There would be many
others she would need to open in the next few weeks if she had
any hope of success. But for now, she closed her eyes. And
kept them closed.

Hours later, Devra was returning back to the station with a
cup of coffee.

“Always with the horses,” she thought to herself as she
passed a statute of a military poet. Ahead, she could see the
two-story yellow building that was the station. Numbers in
blue circles were aligned across its front. A single clock tower
jutted out of the center. She looked at the time and compared it
to her smartphone. On schedule.

She flashed the phone again to the conductor as she

page 15

reboarded the train. Devra marveled at how quickly this part of
the world had become comfortable with its new reality. From
Soviet rule to Western chaos. The human animal was
remarkably adaptable. Once it got over the shock of change, it
learned to cope. To accept. And then to modify its code as
needed until it could thrive. A micro-scaled version of cosmic
reality.

As soon as Devra began to walk down the center aisle of the
train car, she caught sight of David and Mika. They were
focused on each other but it was clear to her that it would be
impossible to pass them without acknowledging their presence.
She steadied herself.

“Night Gallery wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, huh?”
Devra said flatly.

“Closed. Who knew?”

“Not you, obviously.”

“Obviously,” David smiled back. He didn’t get the
American accent right with that one. He was tired. Frustrated.

For a reason she couldn’t quite comprehend herself, she
gently kicked the duffle bag on the floor by David’s feet. He
reacted with a start as her shoe made contact with something
hard.

“You travel light,” she said sarcastically. Suddenly, Mika’s face
hardened. David tried his best to hide it, but Devra could
tell he was raging inside.

“I’m a…” David mumbled.

“Photographer?” Devra asked.

Sure. Why not?” he replied.

“Or maybe a programmer?”

“Okay. Whatever you want.” David forced a smile.

Devra stared hard at him. He wasn’t cocky now. He was off

Hidden Info

There is a reference to a statue in the stop that Devra makes. That statue is the Rudolf Maister in Ljubljana. This gives us a new passcode rudolfmaister

An Exotic Matter 6

balance. He was wondering at some level whether he had gone
from predator to prey. Off balance was where she wanted him.
She turned her attention to Mika.

“I want you to stay away from me, David. You and Mika
both. I know that bag is filled with stolen gear - phones and
computers and tablets that you’ve been taking from
passengers. I know that you think you can charm your way into
the confidence of people traveling solo. I can imagine that Mika
here has no problem with the men, and you handle the marks
like me. Do I look like a mark to you?”

“And am I acting like one?” Devra said, her eyes locked
right back on Mika.

“No,” David said.

“When you met me, you told me you were traveling for
pleasure. I told you I was on business. You do not want to
know what my business is…” Devra said slowly.

Mika and David both reacted as if they had just looked into
the face a demon. Whatever power the XM was giving her,
Devra realized it included the ability to intimidate. Or was it a
new ability? Certainly she’d had it before. She didn’t get to her
position at Stanford or on Niantic without it. But now, she had
a sense of mastery. A sense of total understanding.

And with that, Devra stepped away, barely able to maintain
her composure. She wanted to scream out loud, not from fear,
but from triumph. The XM was affecting her in ways she had
never anticipated. She had accused the two thieves because in
a flash she had seen their every action as if she had been there
herself. A two-hour movie in the blink of an eye, and yet she
could remember every detail. Every theft. Every con they had

page 17

run on every victim.

Devra found a seat near the back of the passenger car and
hunkered down as the doors closed with a pneumatic whoosh.
The train pulled out of the station. Across the aisle, a single
middle-aged man surfed the internet on a tablet. Devra turned
to him, pointing toward Mika.

“She doesn’t want you. She wants your stuff,” Devra said.

“So, a woman then?” The man smiled back to her. Devra
laughed. The first laugh in as long as she could remember.

She laughed longer than she should have. A laughter that
seemed to release all of the pent up energy and fear and anxiety
and stress and confusion and doubt within her. Devra took a
breath, picked up her phone and dialed. The ringing seemed to
go on forever, until finally, a voice on the other end of the line.
Devra hesitated for only a moment.

“Hello. It’s Devra. Yes. Really. I’m fine. Thanks. You?

Good, good. Look, I’m coming into town. I know. It has been
too long. Well, I’m making up for that now. Literally. Yes. In
about two hours. Only if it wouldn’t be an inconvenience. I can
take a cab. Or the metro. They still have those lovely blue
trains? Really? You’re sure? Okay, yes. I can find it. The statue
out front. Dalmatians, yes. I’ m sure it’ s not that ridiculous. Oh,
is it? Okay. I will see you there. Thanks, you have saved my life.
Again. Now I might be able to save yours. What? Yes. I will tell
all when I see you. Bye.”

Devra touched the screen to hang up the call as a text
message suddenly came through.

Stick to the plan and I will keep you safe.”

There was no point in trying to respond. It wouldn’t change
anything. Instead, she dropped lower into her seat. She would
be there in a few hours.

The conversation on the phone seems to refer to this place in Zagreb. (more info on the monument here)

An Exotic Matter 7

Blink. She could feel the brakes slowing the train. Had she
dozed off‘? No, she was sure of it. Yet the train was arriving at
her destination. She could hear the announcement. Another
two-hour movie instantly experienced.

Devra shook her head.

“We’re here already?” she said to the man across the aisle.

“Time flies,” he replied.

“Except when it stands still,” Devra said.

“At least we made it out of Zurich alive…” the man replied.

“What do you mean?”

“The murders. At the Zurich HB. You didn’t hear?”

“What? When?” Devra tried to hide her reaction. The panic
started to build back up inside her.

“Last night. They are treating it as a possible hoax. Or
stunt,” he said as he passed Devra his tablet.

She looked at the story on the screen. There was a picture
of Jarvis laying by the Escher statue. And the body of a woman
sprawled next to him. Devra took a deep breath and prayed her
reaction was controlled. She steeled her eyes.

“Thank you,” Devra replied as she handed the man back his
tablet and got to her feet.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed again. She read the text
message on her screen. “Devra. Stick to the plan. Your meeting
place is set.”

Buzz. “I will keep you safe.”

Devra could not get the image of Jarvis out of her mind.
They had killed him. And killed a woman with him. Her build.
Her hair color.

“I will keep you safe.”

That was supposed to be her. The woman. They killed her,
but Devra realized she was the target. Her guardian angel had\

page 19

saved her again. Buzz.

“I will keep…”

And only the angel would know.

Devra turned off the phone with a start as the blood drained
from her face. She quickly composed herself and moved
forward with the other passengers, toward David and Mika
who were making their way to the exit doors.

Devra shoved her way past them, pushing Mika aside and
trying to her best to not break into a full run, even though her

legs so desperately wanted to.

The doors barely opened when Devra practically leapt onto
the train platform and quickly made her way into the crowd.

Devra didn’t stop to look back at David and Mika’s reaction
and to see whether she was being followed. She thought to
herself as she walked that the old Devra would have turned
back. That her curiosity would have gotten the best of her. And
that is how the cat got killed, she remembered. So she kept her
eyes focused ahead.

They didn’t know. They hadn’t seen it happen.

Mika was so busy being territorial she didn’t notice Devra
drop the phone into the pocket of her duffle bag of goods as
Devra had brushed her aside. One more stolen piece of tech
that David and Mika would eventually pawn.

But for now, though they couldn’t know it, the angel would
travel with them.

An Exotic Matter - chapter 2 (Eight Five Five)

Chapter 2 seems to expand a bit more the events surrounding Devra but now also Farlowe and the mysterious 855

2
Eight Five Five
Farlowe unscrewed his silencer, holstered his pistol, and turned to Phillips, who scanned the scene around him.
“Eight hundred heavy, times two,” Phillips said into his Bluetooth headset.
Farlowe studied his handiwork. A clean entry wound on Jarvis' forehead only hinted at the horrors that were once the back of his skull.
“Heavy hangs the head that wears the crown,” he muttered under his breath as he listened in on Phillips. Farlowe could see Devra' s body laying on its side, partially obscured by shadows.
Phillips turned to him. “Cleaners are en route. Two minutes.”
“Shoulda been center-mass. We wouldn't need so many
sponges,” Farlowe said.
“That's the way it came in,” Phillips replied as he moved
An Exotic Matter, F. Hajra-Lee 5/16/09 Page 20
toward Devra' s corpse.
Farlowe surveyed his surroundings. He didn't see
anybody, but he did hear a voice. Female, Swiss-German
accent. Frantic.
Phillips grunted and stepped over to Devra. Blood had
sprayed onto the statue behind her. Two head-shots, just like
the mission request. But something was wrong.
“She's calling the police,” F arlo we said.
“What?” Phillips was distracted, which is precisely what he
shouldn't have been at this moment.
Farlowe moved closer to Phillips. “I can understand what
she's saying. She's calling the police.”
“It's not her.” Phillips rolled the body at his feet onto its
back.
Phillips looked at Farlowe as a dark panel van pulled up
next to them. Three cleaners, all in their late twenties, two men
and one woman, quickly jumped out of the van and moved to
the bodies.
“It's not Bogdanovich … What the hell?”
IfFarlowe was surprised by this news, his years of training
and fieldwork had taught him how to hide it.
Farlowe reached for his weapon and started to screw back
on the silencer.
“I'll take care of the witness.”
“No. We assumed somebody would see this. We're in a
very public place.”
“So now what?” Farlowe asked Phillips.
“Now we clean up this mess and get the hell out of here.
Now Bogdanovich is on the run. So now you find her. I want
no open communications. You talk to nobody but me. I'll give
you your next move when I know what it is. Now you go.”
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Suddenly, they both were bathed in green light. Like a
plasma. Farlowe looked for a source. There wasn't one. Still, he
kept looking. It was coming from Jarvis' corpse. Enveloping
them.
“What the … ”
Phillips grabbed hold of Farlowe' s arm and pulled him
backwards as the cleaning crew covered their eyes.
“Everyone get back! It's XM!” Phillips yelled, but to
Farlowe, it was like listening to someone from below the
surface ofwater. Distorted. Muffled.
Farlowe had a sense of falling backwards as his eyes locked
onto the glowing plasma floating near him. It was assembling
itself, like a mist with intelligence. Farlowe heard a deafening
hiss. It sounded like something he had heard many times
before. The final exhale. A death rattle. Then, the mist drifted
towards the base of the Escher statue and was sucked into the
earth.
“Farlowe! Farlowe!”
He would never know what happened for the next few
seconds. Farlowe tried to force his thoughts into focus, and
when he did, everybody was gone. He was alone in front of the
statue. His pistol and silencer were missing.
“Farlowe!”
The agent looked down at his hands. The woman cleaner
was swabbing his hands with disinfectant, removing gunshot
residue. The cleaner next to her was dropping his pistol and
silencer into a large plastic bag.
“You with us? Or are you with someone else?” Phillips
asked Farlowe.
“Completely with you, sir,” Farlowe lied. He realized that
he was momentarily out. He didn't remember them taking his
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gun or starting on his hands.
“We got clear, but you were in the stuff for a few seconds.”
“Felt like longer,” Farlowe said, studying Phillips. “I'm
good.”
Phillips handed his Glock 31 chambered with .357 SIG to
Farlowe.
“You'd betterbe.”
An hour later, Farlowe was driving south. There was little
hope that he would overtake Bogdanovich, but he'd catch up
with her sooner or later. If she was still on the train, there were
only so many places she could go. He just had no idea what he
was going to do when he did catch up with her. The Glock in
his waistband told him what Phillips had in mind, but Farlowe
wasn't so sure.
Instead, he felt a sense of purpose. He just didn't know
what it was yet.
Farlowe reached for his phone. Not in his jacket. The
cleaners had taken that, too. He found this simultaneously
annoying and liberating. The car he was driving was a company
vehicle, so Phillips could track him and find him when he needed
to, Farlowe thought to himself as he drove into the night.
The blur of thoughts that had been ripping through his
mind had been reduced to focusing on a never ending dark
horizon. The vanishing point. Still, things were coming into
focus. A new clarity. He was connecting ideas and thoughts
and facts and experience into an emerging pattern of what had
happened in Zurich, and who might have been behind it. And
to Farlowe, none of it looked good.
Either someone botched the order, or Devra had somehow
been tipped off to what was coming and was able to make a
switch. Or she had gotten very lucky.
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Uncertainty was something he always tried to avoid in his
career. But now Farlowe had the sense that this was precisely
where he found himself He was in the dead center of swirling
chaos.
Maybe it was the XM that had hit him earlier that had him
thinking this way. Farlowe realized that he felt different. He
didn't know why. But he did know that nothing would ever be
the same again. And something inside of him was happy about
this.
And for reasons he couldn't yet comprehend, Farlowe also
knew he was heading in the right direction. Toward Devra.
Toward the dark horizon and the woman who had vanished.
A bus with wings. That is what flying has become, 855
thought to himself as he dealt cards onto the fold-down drink
tray in front of him.
His job was full of little indignities - people begging for
their lives. Others trying to kill him. The isolation. The lack of
any steady personal relationship. The blood. His life was
constant movement, like that of a shark who can never stop
swimming. Actually, now that he thought about it, he liked all
those things. But damn it all when he had to fly coach. Still, it
was the luck of the cards.
He turned the deck over and pulled out the kings and jacks,
setting the rest of the cards aside.
He looked at the eight face cards. For each, he had a storya
story that he had rehearsed so many times and played so
many times that each was a part of him. He had spent so much
of his life telling the detailed lies of each of the painted men in
front of him that he had given up trying to keep them straight
from his own life before the agency.
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Now, each was a unique cover identity. Kings were married
men. Jacks single. Clubs were workaday Joes. Spades:
technology. Diamonds: wealth, of course. And hearts: family
and romance.
He tried to remember how many times he had stared at
these cards before. Too many to count. But they provided the
chaos - the random chance that he relied on, and that had
served him well up until now.
That was the thing about his job that people didn't
understand, if he would have ever been allowed to explain it to
them. Which he wouldn't. This line of work was about detail
and procedure. Like the pilots who currently had his life in their
hands, he had his pre-flight checklist. And like the pilots, he
followed it religiously.
But he had also learned that ordered routine eventually
breeds complacency and carelessness, and that patterns were
how he tracked his victims. So he came up with the cards. Eight
chances to be someone else each time he started a new hunt.
“Is it a trick?” asked the teenage girl seated next to him. She
was about fourteen. Slightly overweight. He could hear Katy
Perry coming from her headphones as he turned to her.
“No. Pick a number between one and eight,” he said as he
studied her. He hadn't killed anyone her age in months. She
smiled.
“Five,” she said.
“Right. Five it is.” He turned the cards over and scrambled
them, then dealt them face up, counting as he did so.
“One, two, three, four and five. The king of diamonds.”
“What does that mean?'' she asked.
“I have no idea. Here, you try it.” He gathered up the cards,
and as he scrambled them, slipped a folded twenty dollar bill
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that he had casually palmed from his pocket under the fourth
card.
“I'll say a number. You deal.”
“Okay.”
“What's your name?”
“Sandra,” she said.
“Nice to fly with you, Sandra. Four.”
She dealt the cards. “One, two, three … ”
On the fourth card, she stopped.
“Twenty.” She smiled at him. “I thought you said this
wasn't a trick.”
“I lied.”
“Can I keep this?”
“Not the cards. Those are mine. And since that is all I
handed you, I really have no claim to anything else you may
have found.”
“Is this like a 'pay it forward' thing? I bet you probably
surprise a lot of people.”
“That I do,” he said, as he got up and headed for the
bathroom.
Sandra shrugged, then stuffed the twenty into her purse and
turned Katy Perry back up.
In the airplane lavatory, 855 looked into the mirror, staring
at his face. Still handsome, but now with deep lines forming
around his eyes and on his forehead. Green eyes, but he could
change those when needed with contacts. He wasn't sure what
his real hair color was anymore. For now, it was brown, and
just starting to go grey. Early forties but keeping it together.
He opened the hidden area in the lining of his jacket, and
pulled out a small envelope labeled “King of Diamonds.”
Inside were a passport, a health insurance card, and three credit
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cards, all identifying him as Karl Ameston. He tucked them
into his wallet, removing the previous ones in the process. He
washed his hands, and then wrapped the old passport and
cards thoroughly with a paper towel. Satisfied, he tossed the
bundle into the waste bin.
As he sat back in his seat, Sandra turned to him.
“I forgot to say 'thanks' and ask your name.”
“You're welcome. And Karl,” he said.
Christie was being extremely polite. He hadn't asked Devra
for any details when he picked her up at the train station.
Hadn't prodded for information on the car ride to the small pub
they now found themselves in. Even now, he was seemingly
content to drink his beer and make small talk.
“You see all the graffiti on the side of the building on the
way in? That's been there for over twenty years.”
Devra looked up from her drink and studied Dr. Christie
Novosel, one of the best chemical engineers she had ever
worked with. He was a big man, broad shouldered and with
glasses as thick as his neck. His moustache was grey and full
and bounced around the top of his lip with each word he spoke.
“Hmmm … ”
“In most places, it would be a sign of neglect. But here, it is
a sign of pride. All around Zagreb. When the wall came down,
the first signs of revolt were seen on the sides ofbuildings that
had been sprayed with a rattle can. So it stays. And is
transformed. From vandalism into an expression offreedom.”
Christie looked around the room, then back at Devra.
“They call it 'street art' now. Some of the most famous sell
their works for millions. It's gone mainstream,” Devra said.
“Well then, all I need is a sledgehammer and some nice
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frames and my retirement is assured,” Christie laughed.
Devra smiled back at him. He's doing well, she thought. It
must be eating him up inside not to ask her the obvious
question.
“How about your legacy, Christie? What if I could help
with that?” Devra said.
Suddenly, Christie's face seemed to change. His
expression became serious. Focused. He'd been waiting for
this, and Devra had given him his opening. He intended to
make the best of it.
“So this is about CERN? What you have been up to and
why do you call me out of the blue for the first time in three
years, and two hours later we sit together having a beer? How
much can you tell me? Well, how much are you willing to tell
me?”
Devra leaned back in her chair and studied the room.
Nobody else seemed interested in them. She had intentionally
picked a booth in the comer and was seated so she could keep
an eye on the door.
“It's called Niantic. Named after some ship that's buried
under San Francisco. The NIA names all their projects after
shipwrecks. That should have been my first clue.” Devra
exhaled, seemingly for the first time in days.
Christie raised his beer and took a long swig, indicating that
he had no intention of interrupting her.
“We had been studying the effects of a substance we call
Exotic Matter. I believe that it has an extra-dimensional
component that, as of yet, I can't explain. We saw it first on the
sub-atomic scale, but now. .. it flows into our … reality. And it's
being crafted … ”
“Crafted?”
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“Like DNA, it's a building block that can be used to
create-”
Christie cut her off. “DNA creates life, Devra,” he said with
a blank look on his face.
“Right now the NIA are using it to create weapons. For the
moment, they only seem able to affect other XM constructs,”
Devra replied.
“But that is not where you think this will end, do you?”
asked Christie. The seriousness of what they were talking about
was washing over him, and Devra could see it on his face.
“That is why you are here now?”
Devra nodded as she reached out and touched Christie's
hand. “That and the fact they tried to kill me,” she said.
Christie's eyes widened.
“What? When?”
“Hours ago. In Zurich.”
“So you are on the run?” Christie sputtered.
Devra nodded.
“And you need my help, obviously … anything … just tell me
and ifl have it, it is yours.”
His voice was rising. Adrenaline was kicking in for the big
man, and he was becoming more animated. Devra gestured
towards him and Christie composed himself
“Anything,” he said.
Devra squared herself From the looks of it, she had her first
real ally.
“I'm going to need your expertise, Christie. I'm going to
fight fire with fire. You know more than anyone else on the
planet about converting raw materials into useable forms. And
that's what I'm going to do with XM.”
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The sun was just starting to rise as the plane landed in
Zagreb.
“Karl” breezed through customs and quickly navigated his
way to the baggage claim area. Finding his suitcase, he pulled it
from the carousel and popped open the collapsing handle with
the skill of a seasoned traveler. He caught Sandra out of the
comer of his eye as she waved goodbye. He waved back, then
rolled the bag a couple of carousels over, toward a crowd
waiting for their luggage from another flight, this one from
London.
He observed the people as they scanned the moving
baggage, each hunting for an end to this part of their journey.
He moved toward the back of the carousel - only a few
travelers here - and deftly pulled the baggage claim tag from
his suitcase without anyone noticing. Then, as if he had taken
the wrong bag, he dropped his suitcase onto the moving metal,
and watched as it joined the others on their orbit past the
impatiently waiting travelers.
The man he had been for the past three weeks was now just
another piece oflost luggage. Any evidence that might link him
to the necessary violence he had unleashed in Shanghai was
now thousands of miles away and soon to be locked in storage,
forgotten for months on end.
Satisfied that all remaining possessions of Raymond Stiber
had been dealt with, 855 got on the with the task of being Karl
Ameston, successful father of three, here in Zagreb
investigating local craft manufacturers for items he could sell as
part of his home decor business.
He stopped at the money exchange window and pulled his
AmEx card from his wallet. He slid the card under the glass at
an attractive, if tired, looking young woman behind the
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counter. She smiled at him as she took it.
“English?” he said.
“Of course, Mr. Ameston,” she replied as she looked at his
name on the card. “How may I assist you?”
“I need a cash advance. Ten thousand kuna.”
“That will be approximately seventeen hundred U.S.
dollars, plus fees. Should I proceed?” she smiled.
Karl reached into his jacket for his passport. “I'm assuming
you're going to need this?”
“Yes, please.” She took his passport and opened it up,
studying him for a moment. As she was trained. Thorough
enough. But by tomorrow, he would be forgotten. As he was
trained.
“Thank you, Mr. Ameston. One moment, please” she said
as she slid his passport back under the glass.
“Tell me, is there a place where I can purchase a prepaid cell
phone in the airport? I need a local number,” he asked her.
“Not in the airport, no. Sorry.”
“No problem. I will figure it out when I get to my hotel.” He
smiled at her.
In the cab, he looked at his watch. The one artifact that he
could not part with. Ever. He had picked it years ago, after one
of his first jobs. A trophy. He had decided to make it look like
a robbery, and it was the obvious thing to take. Huge dial.
Stainless steel linked chain. Heavy. A diver's watch that would
never see the ocean. Expensive but subtle. And he had
incorporated it into each of his cover stories. In his line of work,
it was one of the most valuable tools. But not the most
valuable. He needed one of those, too. But first, the phone and
a few other essentials.
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Even though the cab ride wasn't that long to the Avenue
Mall, Karl made sure to overtip the driver enough to get his
attention. Never too early to start chumming the waters, and he
had learned that any cab driver around the world could help
you find a girl or trouble. Or both.
After buying a small laptop computer and hitting a few
clothing shops, 855 picked up a new suitcase in which he
would be burying Karl Ameston at whatever airport his job
would take him to next. Then, he found a kiosk selling pre-paid
phones. He purchased two with local sim cards.
One of the phones in hand, he texted the number to his
contact, then headed into a small drug store. He knew better
than to put the phone in his pocket. It began to ring almost
instantly as he reached the stationery supplies aisle.
“You pick up any trail?” Phillips said.
“Haven't started. Been on-site about an hour. I just got the
burner and messaged you once it was activated. I still have
some prep to do first, but it won't take long.”
“Two targets are now a priority. Link to follow.”
“Last words from either? Anything keeping you up at
night?”
“Plenty. But not from them. I'm authorizing both orders.
Do what you do. Quickly.”
The line went dead. Mter a moment, a text message with a
compact URL. He clicked the link and entered his passcode.
Two dossiers - one for a Dr. Devra Bogdanovich, a
researcher, another for a company man named Farlowe -
appeared on the screen. No wonder Karl thought he heard
stress in Phillips' voice. This job included family business. So
be it. Karl had long ago gotten past asking about the “why.”
Only the “who and when.” Now he had both.
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He committed the URL to memory, and then deleted the
text.
Karl dropped the phone into his coat pocket and turned his
attention to the shelves in front of him. He found the scissors
he wanted almost instantly. The duct tape wasn't far away.
If flying coach was the part of the job he hated most, this
was the part he loved most.
Zagreb was like many of the former Eastern Bloc cities he
had visited. Soviet box architecture had created the apartment
buildings, but the center of the town, its shopping and dining
districts, retained their old-world charm. Twisting streets and
facades recalled another era, when men like 855 would have
worked for the king. Or the church.
Karl had been to four restaurants he knew were frequented
by the Croatian mafia, eating good food and drinking cheap
liquor. At each, he played the part of the loud-mouthed
American, complaining about or complimenting on the Zagreb
Steak - which in reality he always thought was delicious no
matter where he had been in the city - and generally waving
around too many kuna and U.S. dollars. So far, no takers.
But now, on his fifth trip out that evening, as he started to
believe he might need to default to option one or two, he got
the bite he was waiting for.
Across the almost empty room, two men in leather jackets,
one with sunglasses pushed up on his bald head, were giving
him the once over.
Years of experience had taught Karl that there were a
number of ways to get a gun. You could buy it. Steal it. Or let it
come to you. Because he always arrived at his destination clean
- only movie spies got their weapons through airport security -
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he had gotten very adept at acquiring firearms around the
world. This was the part of the job he loved.
“One more,” he said loudly toward the waitress in broken
Croatian as he held up his glass of Rakia, a sweet liquor of
fermented plum and grapes. She returned with the bottle and
poured him another, still forcing a smile. Cute enough for what
he had in mind.
He took another bite of his steak.
“And I will give you a thousand kuna if you give me the
recipe for this.”
“I'm sorry, sir, but that is not…”
He cut her off as he pulled two thousand kuna from his
wallet and slammed them on the table-top. Loud enough that
he was sure the men across the room would hear. They did.
The rest of diners in the restaurant turned his way momentarily
before returning to their meals. The two men kept their eyes on
him.
“You didn't let me finish. One thousand for the recipe. Two
thousand if you deliver it to me in person. At my hotel. And an
additional five hundred U.S. if you give me a recipe for
breakfast. .. ”
“That's not on the menu, sir,” she said, slightly blushing.
Karl caught a look of the men out of the comer of his eye.
The hook was set.
Karl smiled. “You can't blame me for trying, huh? I guess
I'll just leave a tip instead.”
He slid a thousand kuna across at her.
“Take your boyfriend out someplace nice. Someplace that
is not… this place.” He laughed. She was too stunned at the size
of the tip she picked up to protest.
“Your loss.”
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And with that, Karl gathered up his coat and staggered to
the door. In the glass, he could see the reflection of the men
plotting their next move.
He had walked for about ten minutes.
The restaurant was located in Cmomerec, an older district
in the city, and near a number of industrial buildings. The
tourists didn't get out this way as often, which would lead the
two men following him from the place to believe he was lost, or
stupid, or both. Their mistake.
Ahead was the textile factory he had scouted on his way to
the restaurant. This time of night, no one would be there. He
continued on toward it as his pursuers closed in.
Karl put his hand out to steady himself, reaching a comer of
the crumbling building.
“You lost?” The voice was closer than he anticipated. They
had closed the distance quickly. Clearly, they had done this
many times before. So had he.
“Is this Zagreb?” he replied.
“Yes.”
“Then, no. Not lost. But I could use a cab.”
They hadn't bothered to notice that his Croatian had
improved, as they were already too focused on their own
actions. Any second now.
The man with the sunglasses on his forehead did the
talking. He was taller. Thinner. More urbane. Clearly the senior
member of the duo.
The second man was older. His face had been pockmarked
with acne when he was younger. Now the cratered flesh pulled
taut over his cheekbones and protruding jaw with a
five-o'clock shadow that only added to the menace he would
have projected in almost any situation. A primitive creature.
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Dangerous in the way a large piece oflivestock is dangerous.
“We can help you with that. Why don't you give us the
fare, and we will get you a driver,” Sunglasses said.
“Sure. How much do you need?” Karl said, just the hint of
fear creeping into his voice. He was an expert actor, capable of
conveying almost any emotion instantly and convincingly. His
life depended on it. And the life of others would often end
because they believed him.
“Why don't you let us count it for you.”
And with that the first gun was out. He turned around to see
Shadow had his trained on him as well. Front and back
coverage, standard morons. He was in the middle, but they had
each other in a crossfire. Still, he wouldn't underestimate them.
That was the biggest mistake men made with firearms.
Complacency. There is a right side and a wrong side to any
gun. The man on the right side assumes the man on the wrong
side has been completely subdued by the prospect of sudden
death. It is a false sense of security, and one which leads to
missing the details, like the eye ring of a single shear blade from
a pair of scissors that slipped from Karl's jacket sleeve into the
palm of his right hand with the skill of a professional magician.
Easy as slipping a twenty dollar bill into a deck of cards. It was
unexpected by the mark. Which makes the sleight that much
easier to pull off successfully.
Karl reacted to the semi-auto pointed at his face.
“1, uh … I…”
“Wallet. Watch. In that order.”
“I … ”
“Now!” Sunglasses moved the barrel of the gun forward
for emphasis.
“And don't crap yourself”
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Shadow chuckled behind them.
Karl handed over his wallet, then popped the locking clasp
from the band of his watch and slid it down his wrist and onto
his fingers.
“See, American. You were willing to pay to get screwed.
And you did. So successful night for you after all, huh?”
Sunglasses was laughing now along with Shadow.
“You don't know the half of it,” Karl smiled back at them
as he suddenly tightened every muscle in his body. His fingers
clenched into a fist, compacting the slack in the watch band and
instantly turning it into a makeshift pair of brass knuckles.
What followed was quick, efficient violence.
Karl snapped his watch-encased fist forward, jabbing
Sunglasses directly in his larynx, twisting slightly upward as he
did so and separating the man's voice box from his trachea.
Sunglasses barely had time to register his surprise as the
overwhelming pain of his injury short-circuited his brain.
As Karl anticipated, Shadow was the slower of the two.
With his fist still completing its destruction of Sunglasses'
airway, Karl kicked back and downward at Shadow's left knee.
It broke with a sickening, loud crack.
In one fluid motion, Karl turned, wrapping his fingers
around the eye ring of the scissor blade and pulling the rest of
it from his sleeve as Sunglasses collapsed, choking and gasping
for breath.
Shadow, still trying to comprehend how something so
mundane as robbing a drunk American had suddenly gone so
wrong, tried to focus his aim and get off a shot. But before he
could squeeze the trigger, agonizing pain shot through the left
side of his body.
Karl's aim was true. Through the ribs and straight into the
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lung. Karl used the leverage of the eye ring to drive the shear
blade all the way to the hilt. Shadow tried to scream, but Karl
was quick to cover his mouth with his hand and guide the man
along the brick wall behind him all the way to the ground.
Little blood was spilling onto Shadow's clothing. As
always, perfect, Karl thought.
“What you are experiencing right now is called
hemopneumothorax, which is a fancy way of saying air and
blood in the chest cavity.”
Karl looked directly into Shadow's eyes as he held onto the
eye ring of the shear blade. He kicked Shadow's gun out of his
reach.
“Also known as a sucking chest wound. Ironically, the
thing keeping you alive right now is also the thing that is killing
you. So be careful not to move around too much.”
Karl crossed back to Sunglasses, and turned the gasping
man over on his stomach. He pulled the roll of duct tape from
his jacket and quickly hog-tied him, using the second blade
from the disassembled scissors to cut the tape.
Then, he returned to Shadow and tightly bound his feet,
feeling something on his calf as he did so.
“Hands, please,” Karl said.
The man painfully extended his arms out, and Karl quickly
wrapped them with duct tape.
“Interesting line of work you fellas have chosen. Let's see
what tools you've brought to the job site.”
Karl reached over and picked up Shadow's handgun.
“A Rook,” he said as he looked over the weapon. The gun
was an MP-443 Grach.
“Very nice. Chambering 9mm Parabellum. Seventeen
round magazine. Can be chambered for the 7N21, commonly
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called the PBP, hot-load overpressure variant armor-piercing
round.”
He ejected the magazine from the grip.
“Not that lucky. And there's something else.”
He slid up the man's pant leg. An XD Compact in an ankle
holster.
“Here we go. Think globally, buy locally, right?”
Shadow did not respond. Anger was taking hold of him,
overcoming the fear and pain he was experiencing.
“Croatian HS2000, XD Compact. Grip safety. Ten round
magazine. Almost as good as Zagreb Steak. I think your friend
had a GSh-18.”
Karl stepped to the choking man and picked up his pistol
off the ground.
“Yep. I was right. GSh-18. The eighteen references the mag
capacity. Standard Russian sidearm. 9mm Parabellum as well,
and this one is … ”
He ejected the magazine and looked at the ammunition.
” .. .is loaded with PBP. Capable of defeating body armor.
Heck, it'll pierce 8mm of steel at 20 meters.“
Karl turned back to Shadow as he took the sunglasses from
the gasping man, whose wheezing was more shallow now. The
lack of oxygen was causing him to slide in and out of
consciOusness.
“You boys must run into a lot of trouble if you need this for
protection.”
Shadow stared bullets at him.
“We are connected. You know what these tattoos on our
arms mean? We are mafia, and we will hunt you down. And
your family. As long as it takes.”
“Of that, I have no doubt. Don't worry, we're almost done
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here.” Karl smiled back at him as he tucked the guns into his
belt.
He pulled the rest of the kuna from his wallet and tossed the
bills at the feet of Shadow.
“That should cover it.”
With that said, Karl tugged the upper shear blade from the
man's chest. Shadow immediately began gasping for bloody
breath as air and fluid rushed into his lung.
“Thanks for the chat,” Karl said to Shadow. “I needed a
little time to pass. It will lead the authorities to believe that you
were interrogated as part of a mob hit when they do your
autopsies.”
Then he shot both men in the back of the head.
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